so there was this guy at work that i thought was just a ‘bit dull’ or ‘slow’ - just from his speech pattern & thought processing, he asked me a question abt smthg like ‘is this edible ? [holding dill]’ - but i saw him again today & he’s actually special needs, HOWEVER he is NOT dull nor is he ‘SLOW,’ i think he may just be autistic idk; he’s so cool, we get on well, & have similar interests 😭😭 like i’m obsessed w him, but he ‘DOESN’T’ work there. he’s doing ‘an apprenticeship,’ which i’m still trying to understand, but he helps out in the store once a week - today we were repotting (well i was, but then he just joined me & i was more than happy like yes pls do my job for me ❤️❤️❤️) & were chatting whilst obvs & he shared that he actually makes hanging baskets as a business like this boy got a FULL greenhouse + a i forget what he called it like a ‘garden tube’ it’s just a plastic greenhouse (also outside) & he’s done competitions n shit 😭😭😭 like king u know more than me abt this idk why ur asking me if it looks good enough 😭😭😭 but anyway bc he has the greenhouses ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) my plan ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) to pawn shit off on him ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) commenced ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) & i asked if he was interested in aquariums & keeping aquatic plants … & guppies …. & he affirmed he is so followed up w ‘how many aquariums do u have ?’ & then he said none & then my supervisor came to ask if i could go on lunch; i thought he’d be gone by the time i got back, but he was there still repotting - which i was ecstatic to see, bc he’s continuing to do my job for me 😭😭😭 - & then i told him that i’ve got a 4 gallon aquarium ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) that he can have ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) for free ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) to get it out of my flat ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) & he was delighted !!! i’ll try to get his number or email from the manager that kinda ‘oversees’ him to confirm that he’ll be able to take/keep it as i don’t know his living situation & if he’s allowed to keep an aquarium, but literally i was just going to take it w me on my way to work & then just leave to in the ‘boys staff room’ (it’s just a bathroom but there’s a bench to put ur stuff + lockers) & i KNOW he’ll be able to get it home FOR SURE bc the apprenticeship programme he’s in provides transport so SCORE
people who reblog ur posts with dickish additions are so weird and frustrating,,, like why would u reblog it ?? just send me anon hate like a normal shitbag
warnings: nsfw (MINORS DNI) naruto and the other students are 18-19
not proofread! feel free to send requests! :))
Kakashi
being domestic….
kakashi is very used to taking care of himself; so he automatically takes care of you too. but the second you start caring for him, he’s popping boners left and right.
you did his laundry for him: he’s hard. you made him lunch: he’s hard. you wish him luck on his mission and kiss his cheek: he’s hard.
some days he doesn’t even end up leaving the house because he gets to caught up fucking you silly over the kitchen counter LMAO
also his books…
if you read his books without him knowing and then reenact a scene with him, he will lose his mind.
Gai
wearing his clothes…
like if he comes home to see you in his green outfit, or even just his vest or leg warmers. he’s going feral and bending u tf over.
also if you watch him train and compliment his muscles, he will lose it. he loves showing off his strength to you (he’s always picking u up and throwing you over his shoulder hehe) so when you praise him for it he gets weak in the knees.
Jiraiya
everything and anything turns him on…
he loves your perfume. if he smells it in public like at a store or something he will need to excuse himself to the bathroom to fix his ‘little’ problem.
your hair turns him on, your lips turn him on, your voice turns him, shit even your breathing turns him on.
You could just chilling with him on the couch, silently reading before you notice Jiraiya crawling inbetween your legs. “What are you doing?” you would ask, just to get a stupid response from him like: “you were breathing. it was hot.”
And trust, if you try to seduce him or show that you want him in that way, he will genuinely pass tf out.
when he’s really tired and his day has been shitty, just shove your tits in his face and play with his hair. pls 🙏
Naruto
Naruto actually feels quite bad when he gets turned on while you’re doing normal things. it makes him feel like a pervert, like Jiraiya LMAO.
but he can’t help it if you touch his ear or hair.
Naruto never knew he could be so sensitive to a touch like that. but if you brush his hair behind his ear, your finger tips grazing the outer shell of it, he’ll get weak in the knees for sure.
Also pull his hair…trust he likes that.
he also likes watching you train or fight. It turns him on seeing how strong you are. trust he’ll just have smug ass smirk while everyone watches you fight. he’ll probably say smth stupid like: “Yep, that’s my girlfriend.” sitting there with a nasty man spread or smth
also he definitely doesn’t mind if you boss him around. i mean sometimes he’ll pretend that it gets on his nerves (and it definitely did when he was younger) but now that he’s grown he loves that shit 🙏
Sasuke
i feel like sasuke is not a SUPER sexual person. the usual things that turn people on doesn’t really have much of an effect on him….that was until he saw you in a short nurses dress because you and your friends were having a costume party.
sasuke is actually super into like dressing up. Whether it be an outfit like the nurses one, or just a simple lingerie, he goes crazy.
I think that Sasuke likes the teasing foreplay even more than the actual sex part of sex.
like just sit on his lap and tease tf out of him in your little outfit and he’ll lose his mind.
if you ever walk past him in public, nonchalantly lifting your shirt just a bit so he can see the top of your thong…your getting bent tf over in the nearest bathroom.
Kiba
YOU BEING MAD. hear me out.
he will do anything in his power to frustrate you. He’ll tease you, mess up your work, slap your books out of your hands. literally anything to get you to be mad at him.
and his favorite part….when you finally yell at him.
Making him sit down and listen to your lecture. he’ll reply with a smirk and a “yes ma’am!” as he hides his massive boner lmao.
he secretly loves getting bossed around by you, it really gets him going. and he especially loves fucking you until your not mad anymore…
CALL HIM A GOOD BOY AND HIS TAIL WILL BE WAGGIN LMAO
Shikamaru
shikamaru loves lazy days…it gets him going when you act just as lazy as him.
usually your always busy, making him do chores with you and everything. but on those special days where your just as tired, he goes feral.
You’re wearing nothing but some fuzzy socks, little shorts, and his shirt. yeah he’s already gone. and if you want sleepy, lazy sex….he feels as if he died and went to heaven.
also: if you are smarter than him.
like if you win when playing your game against him or Asuna, he would have to hide his flustered face and growing tent in his pants.
he’s not too sure why, but he is really attracted to intelligence.
Lee
EVERYTHING BABE, EVERYTHING
Lee worships the ground you walk on, you are a goddess in his eyes. you don’t even need to do anything and he would be horny for you.
Though I don’t think Lee would ever initiate sex, he would be down for it literally any time you ask.
he really loves when you compliment his strength. like please sit on his back while he does push ups and praise him after each one. he would genuinely pass away lmao
yeah so there isn’t anything specific that turns him on, honestly just the thought that you want him makes Lee turned on
Gaara
like sasuke, i don’t think Gaara is a very sexual person. it quite rare that he want sex.
Though i do believe he LOVES making out. Just sit on his lap and touch each other all over while heavily making out and breathing in each other’s ear…SIGN HIM TF UP.
Though Gaara will get turned on if you try to seduce him. he would definitely be confused as first but after he knows what’s going on he gets all flustered and nervous hehe
Like if you’re leaning close to him, giggling and twirling your hair and stuff. It turns him on knowing that you want HIM of all people
Kankuro
like Kiba, he likes to piss you off.
He’ll purposely kiss you after you put on lipstick and smear the color, running away while laughing as you complain. He’ll smack your ass as you walk by and ‘not know what you’re talking about’ when you tell him to stop. He’ll scare you when you walk past, he’ll bother you, he’ll mess up your hair. But it’s not because he doesn’t like you, it’s quite the opposite.
He likes when you get mad at him. yelling at him and making him apologize or clean up his mess. he likes it trust 🙏
but Kankuro also secretly loved praise and being babied. Like grab his face gently, make him look up at you as your praise him for all his hard work. He would melt.
pairing → viewer!toji x camgirl!reader Ი𐑼 wc tba (sorry!)
syp ; after running out of ideas for your nightly livestreams, you set up a p.o box for your viewers to help you out. days after announcing it, the first gift comes from your top subscriber.
cw voyeurism , use of sex toys , p(?) in v , overstim , doggystyle to missionary , daddy kink (once) , praise , pet names (baby, doll, sweet girl) , gojo/geto cameo
it starts as an easy side hussle. your landlord increases the rent and your day-job just isn’t cutting it anymore. yet somehow, just before you were going to accept defeat, the brand new camshow site piques your interest.
what could go wrong?
eventually, the payroll from each stream has you racking up enough money to pay rent and quit the shitty office work — earning thousands from viewers tuning in with money to spoil you with while all you had to do was tease and edge your clit for a bit.
to be frank, it’s mostly thanks to a certain someone showing up to your camshows every single night — without fail — fushi.g43, your top subscriber and most interactive viewer.
sometimes, you wonder what this man actually looks like in real life — or what his job was, considering you earn boatloads of money per night curtesy of this mystery voyeur. but knowing the freaks that actually did spend their savings on porn pages, you naturally chalk it up to someone who probably couldn’t please any real girls because of his tiny dick.
after hitting the pretty big milestone of 50k subscribers, you were finally running out of ideas. cramping your fingers each time just wasn’t enough, thus came the p.o box you set up for your loyal gooners (and goonettes, probably) to send you dozens of toys to try, fulfilling each and every one of their twisted fantasies.
you collect the first gift less than two days after announcing it to your subscribers.
the box itself is huge. in fact, you have to ask a friend to help you carry it upstairs, claiming you bought a new piece of furniture but somehow didn’t actually need any help unboxing or setting it up.
in your solitude, you cut the tape holding your very first package together. just the mere thought of showing off the contents to your watchers fills you with excitement and pools a familiar heat low in your belly.
until you peel away the cardboard flaps, staring at what looked like the most intimidating piece of machinery in your life.
the sex machine stares right back at you. the amount of metal, cold to the touch, was taunting. daring you to actually try it.
but who were you to bail on easy rent?
luckily for you, it came pre-assembled. the only thing left to add after ten minutes of googling how it actually worked was the attachment supposedly coming with it. lo and behold, after peeking back into the box, you weren’t mistaken.
you need both hands to take in all it’s glory — the hyperrealistic texture making your brain frazzle after running a finger down the prominent vein running to the base. a few thick inches still manages to escape your double grip before leading towards the tip, mushroomy and ready to split you in half.
additionally to all of this, you read the manual earlier and actually manage to bluetooth your brand-new hismith to your also-brand-new computer. now the only thing left to do was get ready and start the show — throwing on a miniskirt and, naturally, tossing your lace panties to the side.
“hi, everyone!” you beam, half-nervous and half-excited already to announce the first piece of mail. “how was everyone’s day?”
and just like that, the viewers flood your chat.
honored1 - missed u baby
monkeyh8er - cant wait to see tonites sesh
after some idle chatter and light teasing, you take a shaky breath and twist your webcam to the left. you’d already positioned the fuck machine to the edge of your bed, silently praying this wouldn’t make too much of a mess on your sheets. “guys, look at my first gift!”
despite trying your best to take it slow and ease into it, you clearly grew needier with each passing minute, constantly palming over your breasts through the taut, thin shirt you donned, driving yourself and your fans into an eager frenzy.
$50 , fushi.g43 - give us what we’ve been waitin on doll
so you do. you turn yourself around, making your way to your decorated bed and flashing your glistening slit on the way there.
you left nothing to the imagination when you position yourself in front of hundreds of thousands of viewers. with the 9 inch silicone behind you, you’re slowly easing back and letting the tip graze your fluttering hole.
$100 , honored1 - fuck, look at her
“thank you for the h-hundred,” you mumble, not even paying attention to the actual message as you begin to rock yourself back and forth. it’s a delicious type of agonizing, the cock stuffing you deeper and deeper with every roll of your hips and eliciting desperate little whines out of you.
already, you’re questioning if the buyer behind this mystery gift bought some type of deluxe version attachment — the tip kisses your g-spot perfectly every time, bunching your skirt around your waist like some kind of dress-up doll with every lewd fwop! fwop! fwop! of the sex machine in your gummy walls.
“w-whoever— hahh! — bought me this,” you make an attempt to at least thank whoever the culprit was but instead clamp your palm around your mouth, the sparks of pleasure becoming overwhelming within minutes, “fuck, fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”
$120 , fushi.g43 - perfect lil body
$90 , monkeyh8er - wish that was my cock bby
an off-white ring spills around the base of the dildo before you flop yourself down on your back, tip still looming near the entrance to your walls.
“that was a fun test-ride!” you pant, still looking oh-so cute as your doe eyes lock with the webcam, “apparently it has a bluetooth thingy, hold on…”
you should’ve at least waited a little longer, should’ve took a few more minutes to fiddle with your phone. you’re already squirming without trying because of your involuntary clenches around the cock’s head and you had initially no idea what was about to come.
the tip-activated hierarchy pops up in your screen minutes before the first round. it goes up in power and time — 20 bucks at the very least for something slow and short, 200 for a whole minute and a half of the toy straight up jackhammering into you.
“here we go,” still in the same position you ended your first run in, you’re running your hands all around your body as you wait for the first donation, “it’s up to you guys now!”
it doesn’t take long before there are tens of donations in the queue, thirty second intervals between them to give you at least some breathing space.
however, something in the queue makes your jaw drop almost instantly after announcing the startup.
$20 , fushi.g43 : slow 30s
$50 , fushi.g43 : intermediate 30s
$200 , fushi.g43 : fast 1m30s
so on and so-fucking-forth, of course your top subscriber buys the first ten spaces. you don’t even have a moment to collect your thoughts, the heavy machinery on the edge of your bed turning your squint of confusion to one of absolute helplessness.
“o-oh my god!” the newfound sensation has your thighs clamping together within seconds, the thirty second interval feeling like nothing but a deep breath when the speed and power increases — all curtesy to the absolutely deplorable freak spending hundreds just to watch a silicone cock pound your sore cunt from a machine. “ohmygod ohmygod!”
if you had to experience this for up to ten, maybe more, rounds, you’re sure you’d go limp. the hospital trip would be so humiliating — though there’s no time to be thinking about that. matter of fact, there’s no time or ability to even think at all.
the donated thrusts were relentless, bottoming out to the hilt of your pussy before dragging every girthy inch out and stuffing it right back in. tiny whimpers grow into moans loud enough to wake the complex, headboard practically banging against your pretty pink wallpaper in a reflectively brutal rhythm.
safe to say you weren’t leaving the apartment tomorrow.
even so, as your head lolls to the side, you take a look at the viewer count for tonight’s stream only to find it’s the highest number yet. you’d already received tip after tip — no pun intended — and yet the number continues to multiply itself with every passing shlck! of your juices gushing all over your duvet.
twenty minutes of this flew by as quick as you came the first three times. your legs were aching, trembling and too heavy to move anymore. you’re sure you’ve earned yourself a two week trip to any five-star resort after this show — you consider it a reward for putting up with each and every one of the tip activated rounds using your new personal favorite dildo.
just before you make an effort to try and sit up, one message in particular catches your eye.
$100 , fushi.g43 - took it so well sweet girl. one more for daddy?
$70 , fushi.g43 : slow 1m
“f-fuuck!” you’re already groaning in ecstasy, the sinfully tedious strokes from the silicone cock giving your poor, overstimulated cunt much less chaos from before. in spite of that, you wanted more. “feels s-so — nngh! — s’fuckin’ good!”
anything else spilling out of your mouth tonight consisted of pathetic little mewls and incoherent babbles. droplets of drool slips out from your slacking maw, clearly fucked stupid from only the first gift of many to come in that godforsaken p.o box.
monkeyh8er - love watching u cry on some dick
ignoring the overwhelmingly hefty sensation of your thighs, your hips buck — chasing your nth high given to you so generously by the one man practically keeping your apartment’s rent on time. the mix of pushing yourself to the limit and craving your orgasm like oxygen is driving your head into fog, eyes falling further into the back of your head with every time the pinkish tip gently bullies at your cervix again.
your cunt is already spasming and leaking a thick, creamy substance before you expect it. a wave of relief washes over your delirious face, the gooey liquid forming a sticky puddle between your jellied thighs.
$150 - fushi.g43 - atta girl
moments of silence pass as you lay on your bed, hair toussled and splaying over the fucked-out expression etched into your doe eyes. nothing makes a sound other than your calming pulse, thumping with post-adrenaline and catching up with the rest of your exhausted body.
“thanks, whoever bought me this…” you mutter, probably under your breath and too sleepy to care about the bubbly routinic ending to the stream you’d usually perform. right now, the only thing that matters is how comfy you’d be if you passed out in your tangled sheets — you could clean up later. “i’ll — hic! — see you all tomorrow.”
you don’t remember how you managed to turn the webcam off, nor do you remember how you managed to get your full 8 hours of rest without bothering to change into some pyjamas.
you clean the place up with your jammies back on — hot coffee on your bedside, two hands juggling antiseptic wipes and tissues. it’s a wonder nobody’s complained about you yet but you didn’t feel like jinxing yourself this morning, opting for a quiet day of lounging on the couch after such a long, hard night.
the fuck machine’s been put to one side and you’re ready to throw away the packaging until a note stuck to the bottom waves at your peripheral. perhaps you missed part of the instruction manual, you think, before actually reading it, face turning pale.
“can’t wait to watch my cock stuff your pretty cunt baby. love, fushi.g43 <3”
maybe you should start adding private video calls to your page.
a/n ahh ! this took me forever , but it was worth it. thank u all so very much for 2k , it means a lot to me ^-^ i hope this special is worth the wait hehe the ending was a little rushed .. now i can write the fun requests in my inbox woohoo !! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა
SYPNOSIS .ᐟ toji's gambled the last of his last pay cheque and has to find a roommate. in you come with your soft giggles, banana bread and hordes of vanilla candles. he doesn't expect how he starts enjoying coming back to the apartment. or when he finds you using a vibrator and mewling his name
⌗ A NOTE FROM IVY ⸝⸝ i've actually never written squirting before can u believe that. small reverse of this drabble i wrote!
Toji’s never liked having roommates. Never liked the forced politeness, the bullshit small talk, the way people got offended when he didn’t tiptoe around like some housetrained mutt. He wasn’t built for whispered sorrys in the hallway, for asking, “hey, are you using the washer?” He liked living alone—liked coming home to silence, to whatever mess he left, to nobody telling him what the hell he could or couldn’t do. But he’d blown most of his last paycheque from Shiu on cards, liquor, and a couple nights he barely remembered. Rent for a one bedroom was off the table.
So he took the listing you posted. A small little apartment in the city, tucked away from the main streets, rent cheap because you couldn’t afford it by yourself. And he’d expected it to be miserable for him—it was all leafy plants and photo strips and scented candles. But it wasn’t. Not with you in it. You were sweet, soft, blushed when he made crude jokes and left banana bread you'd baked on the counter when you knew he was coming home late. You hummed to yourself in the kitchen and smiled bright at him like you were the last soft thing left in this shitty world. Sometimes he caught himself looking forward to coming back to the apartment, to your giggles and bad reality tv.
He thought he’d hate it—having to be careful, not coming back with blood on his knuckles and cash shoved in his back pocket. Thought it would be irritating, having to keep his job, his life secret from you because you were just too human and soft to take all the bloody parts of his life. But he didn’t. He found he didn’t really want to freak you out, thought he owed it to you to not get you tangled up in his mess after how good you’ve been to him, kinder to him than anybody’s been in decades. You never ask questions, never pry when he’s gone for days on end. Just light up when you see him, already rambling about the latest book you started. Soft. Sweet. He pretended his lips didn’t twitch up every time.
Tonight he comes home late—duffel slung over one shoulder, body aching from the job that kept him gone three and a half days. He’s tired, wants a shower, maybe a cold beer, maybe hearing you ramble on about whatever reality show you’re hooked on now.
He pushes the front door open. the apartment is dark but warm, smells like your vanilla candles you no doubt left burning.
He toes out of his beaten boots, rolls back his shoulder, muscles aching and tight after the latest assignment he’s taken. he should go shower first, get changed out of his black tee and joggers, or at least put his shit away. He doesn’t. Instead he makes his way through the apartment, footsteps silent, stealth that he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow out of weaved into his movements. He tells himself he just wants to see if you’re asleep yet—he’s not checking on you. He’s not your boyfriend or anything like that. Just being a good roommate because you’ve been decent to him and given him more banana bread than he’s had in his entire lifetime.
Just wants to see if you’re alright, tucked safely in bed, maybe wake up to see him and give him that sweet little smile when you see he’s back, maybe you’ll get up, maybe you’ll make some tea so you guys can talk about it what he’s missed, maybe you’ll slip your arms around him and tell him you’ve missed him—but that’s beside the point, he’s being a good roommate, that's all (ignores the fact that he's a known asshole who doesn't give a rat's ass about other people usually). So he slinks to your room, the door cracked open an inch, and he can see the faint lamplight spilling between the crack. And then he hears it—a humming sound. Not loud—just the low, unmistakable buzz of something small and battery powered.
And then he hears it. Soft. But unmistakeable. His name.
“Mm—Toji—oh—please—”
He goes still. yYur door is cracked open just barely. A thin sliver of warm lamplight slices into the hallway. His pulse kicks into something wicked. Slowly—silently—he steps closer, boots soundless on the floor. And through the small gap, he sees your legs first. Spread. Knees bent. Panties already shoved aside, little pink ones bunched at the crease of your thigh. The soft pink toy between your legs buzzes against your clit as your hips rock, tiny mewling whimpers spilling out of your lips. Your head is thrown back, hair messy, cheeks flushed. And you’re mewling his name.
“Please… please, Toji—need—” you whimper. His restraint cracks like ice. He pushes the door wider with two fingers.
“well, well…” Toji rumbles, a wicked smirk curling at his lips, nasty and wide. “What have we got here?”
You jolt like a deer caught in headlights, and he stands there, every inch the predator he is, blood in his teeth, glint in his eyes. Your hand shoots down, covering yourself with your sheets like that’ll do anything, eyes wide, glassy, mortified.
“Toji—! I—I—didn’t hear—You weren’t s’posed to—”you breathe out in a rush, wide eyed and caught.
He steps inside, slow, measured, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He’s still dirty from travel, black shirt stretched tight across his chest, hair messy. That hungry, lazy, dangerous look settles in his eyes as he takes you in—flushed, panting, vibrator still buzzing beneath the blanket.
“Mm, came back early,” he mutters, voice dragging like gravel and you swallow, chest rising and falling. “And guess what I come back to.” his eyes drag over you. Slow. Heavy. “My sweet little roommate using her toys and moanin’ my name like a little pornstar.”
You squeeze your thighs, trembling at being caught, eyes wide. “I—it’s not— I wasn’t—” you try choke out but he huffs, low and amused.
“Don’t try bullshit me.” Toji steps closer, towering at the edge of your bed, gaze sliding over your ruined lingerie, your flushed face, the way your chest rises and falls in panicked little shivers. “You were thinkin’ about me. Touchin’ yourself and moaning my name. I heard it clear as fucking day.”
Your breath hitches. he smirks. his knees hit the bed as he leans closer, caging you in with his arms, face dipping toward yours and your eyes widen a fraction, pretty little thing caught in the consequences of her own stupid little choices.
“I come home after days away,” he mutters, “an’ find you in here with a toy between your thighs… beggin’ for me.”
You swallow thickly. He watches your throat bob.
“And now i’m here.” His eyes pin you, dark and molten. “So what’re you gonna do about it?”
Your eyes flick over his, breath caught and then slowly, trembling, you drop the sheets. His eyes drop down.
The vibrator is still against your clit—slick, wet, the toy glistening with your arousal. your thighs tremble as the cool air hits you, ears burning.
Toji inhales slowly—deep—like your scent hits him straight in the lungs.
“Good choice,” he breathes out and you let out a soft little whimper and he wants to bite it between his teeth.
He reaches out—slow, deliberate—and hooks two fingers under the waistband of your panties, tugging them aside again to expose you fully.
Your cunt is soaked.
“Go on,” he says softly, command threaded through his tone. “Show me what you were doin’.”
Your breath trembles as you pick up the toy again with shaking fingers and flick it on. it hums and buzzes gently and you bring it back to your clit, pressing lightly. Your hips twitch instantly, a soft choked noise spilling from your throat.
“That’s it,” Toji breathes. “Let me see you use it. Show me how you play with that pretty little pussy.”
You press harder—your lips parting, eyes fluttering closed. “T-toji—“ you choke out, a broken little whimper and he leans in, hums low and drags his mouth over your jaw where your head is arched back.
“You need it?” he breathes against your skin, tongue dragging filthy and up your throat. “Do this all the time? Use little vibrator on your clit and make yourself cum till your thighs are shakin’?”
You choke on a moan and nod, rushed, needy, entirely too honest and he grins against your throat.
“Yeah, thought so,” he breathes as his fingers drag up your thighs, finds yours and takes the vibrator into his own thick, calloused fingers and you gasp as he presses it against your clit hard, vibrations rolling through you making you whine out.
“Yeah,” he groans, watching the way your slick makes it too easy, too slippery as he rubs and drags the humming toy over your clit. “That’s the sound I heard earlier.”
Your fingers clutch the sheets, thighs shaking uncontrollably. “Toji—Toji—oh my god—” and then he presses it down harder and your voice breaks. And he watches with heavy half lidded dark eyes as your back arches and head rolls back with a broken gasp and you cum hard. It gushes out of you, and he groans low and drinks in the sight of you squirting all over his fingers and vibrator, dragging it over you and coaxing every pulse and spurt out from you until you’re collapsing back into your soft pink sheets, panting and flushed, eyes glassy and dazed, head clouded from pleasure.
“So fuckin’ pretty when you squirt for me,” Toji breathes low as he slowly pulls the toy away as your chest heaves, hair sticking to your forehead, flush crawling over your skin.
You look like a mess—a pretty fucked out little mess. His tongue drags over his canines. And his hands slide up your thighs, dragging them apart, looking over you.
“Spread those legs wide, baby,” he grins, nasty and wide. You look up at him dazed and flushed. His hand closes around your ankle. “I'm gonna show you what that toy could never do.”
warnings: angst? is that a warning? idk, but it gets fluffy. unrequited love, or is it...? fighting... not nancy bashing but critiquing?
summary: why does he think nancy wheeler is the one? She only sees him now because he "matured," meanwhile, you've been here all along.
a/n: this one yet again is not a request, cause I started it before I got any requests but I promise I'm gonna do the ones sent to me! and possibly pt 2 of not like that. anyways, this one maybe makes up for the angst from before- but first I need to hurt u again >:)
The One - S.H.
"Why are you so convinced that Nancy Wheeler is the one?"
Steve looks up from the pile of cassettes on the table inside WSQK station. No one else is around, just you and Steve.
It's late. Too late for people to still be here, and probably too late for you to have a conversation like this. Too late for you to be poking the bear that is Steve Harrington and his plight to be with Nancy Wheeler once again.
The way his eyes narrow a little is almost so small that if you were anyone else, you mightn't have noticed it. But you are you, and you have spent way too much time in the last few years watching Steve Harrington like he was a thing to be studied.
He sort of was, sometimes.
The 180 he did from High school to now was one to be noticed.
And he seemed like he was over Nancy. Like he could move on he just couldn't find the one; too many failed dates or sparks that fizzled out almost as soon as they came. As if he somehow lost the charm he had in high school.
Or, he was stuck on Nancy and just didn't want to admit it.
But after the chaos with Vecna and what happened to Eddie Munson over a year ago now, Steve stopped going on dates. Stopped trying to find the girl he wanted. It was so painfully obvious why. Nancy had spent that entire situation with you all, and it wasn't just you who noticed, but Robin, Eddie, Dustin- anyone who spent more than five seconds in their vicinity together could see it.
Now, instead of going on dates that turned into nothing more than a 'yeah, that was fun, I'll call you,' But no calls would happen, he was doing his best to show off, show up Jonathan Byers.
Some ridiculous, asinine, macho man, dick measuring contest between two men who were supposed to be adults by now.
Jonathan was dating her; how insecure did he feel in the relationship that he was playing into Steve's childish actions?
And how much of a jerk was Steve for seemingly taking advantage of the rift in the relationship between Jonathan and Nancy currently? Did he even realize how shitty what he was doing was? Or were his eyes really just covered in glasses that had Nancy Wheeler's name painted on them, so wherever he looked, all he saw was her?
"What?" Steve scoffs then, shaking his head as if you'd just offended him, "What are you talking about? I don't think Nancy's still 'the one,' whatever that's supposed to mean."
"Steve."
"What?"
"Do I look like I was born yesterday? Like I live under a rock?"
"Not yesterday, that'd be weird. Under a rock? Sometimes, when you come in early and your hair isn't brushed."
Narrowing your eyes, you lean back in the rolling chair, kicking your feet onto the desk, much to Steve's chagrin.
"How many times do I have to tell you, keep your feet off the damn table, I have to work here, you know?" He all but pushed your feet as he put another cassette into the organizer for them all.
Applause, laughter, booing, ridiculous noises. All cassettes with sound effects for the radio. Along with that silly rubber chicken on the table that you just loved watching Steve reach for with a dead serious expression on his face and squeeze into a microphone.
It's all very serious business.
"My shoes aren't that dirty," you huff, but pull your feet back down anyway, leaning back in the chair to stare at the ceiling in the booth, "and you're just changing the subject."
"No, I'm not. I told you, I don't know what you're talking about."
Steve doesn't even look at you this time as he says it, jaw ticking, like he's chewing on something tough and unsavoury.
"You do," it's your turn to scoff, spinning the chair back and forth with your foot, "unless the puppy dog eyes you make at Nancy and the tension between you and Jonathan is all just a figment of my imagination."
"Probably your imagination. You were always really good at imagining stuff," he mutters, "like when you imagined you saw Tom Cruise walking down the street."
"I didn't imagine that! I thought I saw a guy who looked like Tom Cruise."
"Seriously, why the hell would Tom Cruise be in Hawkins, of all places?" He continues, shaking his head.
"Steve."
"All I'm saying is you have a great imagination."
"You still love her."
"I don't- why is this even a conversation right now?" He groans, clearly getting annoyed. Frustrated.
"Because, just-"
Why was it a conversation right now?
Was it to fill in silence? A topic to discuss out of boredom- out of curiosity? Just words to listen to?
Or, was it some form of self-flagellation, because deep down, you were so painfully in love with the idiot across from you? And maybe you liked pain? Maybe you just needed to know- confirm that you weren't it. Never would it be you.
Steve tosses a cassette with a little more force than necessary- the plastic clanking against the dividers between each cassette as he sets it inside, like it's personally offended him.
"Seriously," he mutters, not looking at you still, "why do you even care so much about this anyway? You're acting like this is your problem, when it's not."
His words hit a painful place within your chest that you've been cradling close for a while now. A place with bandages that were barely holding together as it was; each time he looked at Nancy how he did, it etched away at something deep.
It's late. Maybe you're just overtired; overemotional. Or, maybe, you just love him way more than you should- more than you wished you did.
You could just back down. It's not a fight worth having, your brain says. But those words are fuzzy in the back of your mind because part of you is hurt- he is right. It's not your problem.
You should just drop it.
But your heart wins the battle with logic. Something fractures in your chest. A new fracture, which meets with an old one to create one big snap.
"Because, Steve," his name comes out harsher than you mean for it to, "I am so tired. I'm tired of watching you chase after someone who broke your heart a few years ago. Someone who has failed to see you - doesn't see you how you deserve to be seen."
Suddenly, he's looking at you. Not at the stupid amount of unorganized cassettes in front of him, or the dividers between each cassette he puts away. Not the red marker he left uncapped as he goes over letters that are fading on the sides of the plastic.
He looks at you as though you've grown a second head. Like you're speaking Latin to him, and expect him to understand.
"...what?"
Fuck.
Shit.
You said too much. But not enough- but just enough that he's looking at you incredulously. So dangerously close to just outright telling him you love him and his stupid hair. A realization that you've almost just said it. Without really having to say it.
"Nothing. I didn't mean-" hands rub at your tired eyes, a sickening feeling in your gut like you just did something embarrassing in front of an audience of people, "nothing. Forget it."
You stop slumping in the chair and reach for a couple of cassettes. Just- something, anything to do with your idle hands. Something to focus on. Anything but him.
Hopefully, he just drops it. Like you should have, 2 minutes ago.
But of course he doesn't. Why would he?
"No. Not forget it, seriously, what was that supposed to mean?" he presses like he's the bad cop interrogating someone. His confusion hardened into irritation, something close to anger. Defensive.
"It means-" the sigh that escapes you is almost painful, "it means whatever you think it means- can we just drop this, please?"
"No, apparently we can't," his eyes narrow at you, and you realize that isn't a look you like to see directed towards you, "because you brought this up in the first place. Digging at something that isn't even your business. Acting like you have it all figured out have me all figured out-"
A pause. The air is thick as you suck in a sharp breath, waiting for him to stop. Or keep going. Either one.
"-when you don't. You don't have me figured out. You don't know anything."
He practically spits that last part out. You don't know anything.
You've seen Steve upset before, angry. Mainly when Dustin or the others fuck around and don't listen to him, ending up hurt or in a worse situation than they started.
But that was more annoyance, irritation, affectionate annoyance. The type of mad you get when you're worried about someone.
This? Isn't that. This is just plain annoyance. Anger. It's confusing and jarring and - painful.
The silence between you is so deafening. You swear on everything; you can hear the sound of his jaw ticking and unticking.
Wide-eyed, you try to figure out what you say to that. His reaction is more than you expected, especially since you hadn't thought your words were bad like that.
"Shit- wait-" realization dawns on his face suddenly, and the other negative emotions wash away like nothing. You wouldn't say he was even mad now, "-I didn't mean- shit. That is not what I meant, Jesus, I didn't-"
He may as well be talking to a wall at this point, because you've checked out mentally.
You didn't know him. You didn't know anything.
Why did that hurt so much?
It's late. You're tired. He's probably tired.
Standing up from the chair, you put the cassettes you were fingering back down on the table, pushing the wheeled chair back toward the table.
"It's fine," you say, even though this feels like the farthest thing from fine right now, "you..."
You swallow thickly, mouth feeling like sandpaper as you grab your coat off the back of the chair you'd just been sitting on, not bothering to put it on as you pick your bag up too.
"You're right."
"What? No- don't-" he steps toward you as you skirt past him, headed for the door to the booth, "I shouldn't have said that, I didn't mean it- god. Don't go-"
"It's getting late," you cut him off, voice small, "I'm tired. You probably are too. I'm gonna head home."
Steve doesn't say anything after that. Words are like peanut butter, sticky in his mouth. All he can do is watch as you leave quickly, no slamming of any doors, just quick steps and quiet doors shutting.
Honestly, Steve would've preferred for you to slam a door or two. To be angry at him. But the quiet pain, the hurt look on your face? He couldn't handle that.
Inside the now empty booth, Steve stands there, looking where you'd just been, his fingers holding a cassette, silent.
"Shit."
-
There have been a few times in his life when Steve knew he had fucked up. And fucked up bad. Like when he was friends with Tommy H and Carol in high school, and they spray-painted Nancy's name on the Hawk theatre with a less-than-savoury word.
All because he saw what he thought was Nancy cheating. After being so worried about her, after actually finding himself not wanting anyone else but Nancy; no random flings, just Nancy. He wanted serious.
He still regretted ever doing that.
But then, Nancy broke his heart. And how long did it take her to get into a relationship with Jonathan Byers? The same guy he saw her being held by in her room after she told him she couldn't go to the movies?
Barely any time.
Steve sighed, a long, painful sound as he pressed the balls of his hands into his eye sockets, sitting where you'd been sitting 20 minutes ago. Pressing till he saw little stars and different colours.
"What's wrong with you, man?" He says it to himself because Robin isn't here to slap him upside the head, Dustin hasn't been around much to say anything, "Why would you say that?"
This was another time he knew he fucked up. Maybe not as bad as spray painting Nancy and the word Slut in the same sentence on a movie theatre sign. But, still. Fucked up. Shitty.
Why did he feel so bad? And why did what you said affect him so much?
Tired of seeing you chase after someone who broke your heart. Someone who doesn't see you how you deserve to be seen.
That had cracked open something in him that had already been long cracked, but had been held together with a jury rig of duct tape and denial.
You were right. Nancy didn't see him as he deserved to be seen. She hadn't paid him any mind like that again till 18 months ago, when she saw how 'mature’ he'd gotten.
Meanwhile, you were always there. You saw the change in him long before she really did. That he'd been that way for a while now.
It leaves a sickening feeling in his gut. It makes his heart feel painful, like someone's trying to squeeze the life out of him. Or, make lemonade with it.
He tries to distract himself. Picking up cassettes again and shoving them back in their place; how many kinds of 'oohs' and 'ahhs' does Robin need? Oh- and the APPLAUSE tape case is kinda cracked. Didn't matter, it was only small-
The stupid rubber chicken on the table falls and makes a pitiful, weak squawk. It would be funny if the noise didn't somehow replicate his current mood.
A little pathetic, a little sad, a lot of regret.
What did a rubber chicken have to regret anyway?
Steve grabs his keys.
He couldn't sit here with these feelings lying heavy in his chest; feelings he wasn't even sure he understood. All he knew was that it made him feel sick. And thinking about how he hurt you makes him feel even sicker.
The rubber chicken makes a shrill noise when he accidentally steps on it. Like a dying animal.
And then he's driving to your house without even realising he's subconsciously made that decision.
He doesn't even know what he's going to say. He just knows he can't leave it till tomorrow.
-
You're still awake, sitting on the floor by your coffee table with a container of leftover pasta from dinner.
Your home is so empty. Quiet. When Hawkins had that 'earthquake' which only you and a select few others knew was not just some earthquake, your parents were quick to get out of Hawkins before the military came down and locked Hawkins down.
They had tried to get you to leave, too. But you were legally an adult, and you refused. You couldn't leave Hawkins like this, not when you didn't know if Vecna was truly gone. Not when Steve, Dustin, Lucas- everyone was still here.
But now you were in your family home alone. Too big for one person. Too quiet. Lonely.
The TV is on, but it's static-y. Your dad never got around to getting a new one, and to get it to work, you needed to mess with the antenna till it wasn't even worth it anymore. And you weren't doing that.
It probably looked pathetic. Sitting there, with only a nearby lamp on, leftover pasta in front of you and a cup of tea that's going cold.
But no one was around to see it anyway. It didn't matter.
Then a knock at the door makes you nearly jump out of your skin, the fork you had clattering beside you.
Of course, you know who it is. Because no one else in Hawkins would be at your door nearing 12 in the morning except for one person.
Any chance of pretending you're asleep is pointless because you didn't turn the light off over the porch door when you came in. You forgot.
So you get up. You open the door and try to act normal. Like, whatever that conversation was 40 minutes ago in the Squawk headquarters hadn't even happened.
Steve stands there, the light of the porch making shadows across his face. It could be something out of a romantic, sad movie.
His hair is a little wild- which, granted, it always kind of was- but in a way that was put together; he ran his hand through it a lot, but it always just somehow looked good. Steve cared about his hair; he always had. But now, it just looked like he'd run through the wind to get here. Like he'd run his hands through it one too many times and in a way that suggested exhaustion. Stress.
It's cold and windy, and this could be something-
"You're wrong."
Is he serious?
His eyes look serious and determined. Frustrated. Irritated.
You immediately frown. Face drawing together as you stand there, confused. Blinking a few times at him, you almost can't believe that's what he came here to say. But it's Steve, why are you not surprised?
"You did not just come here at almost 12 am to tell me I'm wrong, again," you deadpan, half a mind to shut the door, "you already said that earlier, Steve."
"No, just hear me out!" He sounds frustrated and a tinge desperate as he runs his hands over his face.
You cross your arms over your chest, your hip pushing out as you stare at him, waiting, expectant. Because you honestly have no idea what he's about to say. What you're ‘hearing out.'
"I don't love Nancy," he huffs, almost petulant, "maybe I thought I did still? I don't know. I just want someone to, I dunno, see me? How I am now. And, I don't think she does- but, like- I don't think she's the one-"
He looks like he's trying to solve the biggest, most intricate math problem in the world. As though there are literal equations behind his eyes that he can't understand, till suddenly-
Realization. Eyes opening a little more, the crease in his brow is present but softening a bit. A little bit of colour draining from his face.
"You- noticed though," he suddenly frowns, his lips pressing together, looking down, the crease forming deeper once more, "you always did. I'm out here, acting like a fool, looking to Nancy to make me feel seen, and notice who I am now. To- love me? Because then maybe I'd be worthy of it-"
You stand there, frozen. You feel like a statue, or what you imagine it would feel like to be a statue. He's almost rambling, not looking at you as he keeps going.
"I never had to prove myself to you. I never needed to earn it. I was always worthy of everything."
"Steve..."
Your voice has never been so soft, so small and quiet.
"I'm not saying I'm having some big moment of realization, like this is some shitty romcom- or- or something like that, that's-" he sighs, "I don't even know what it is I'm feeling right now. But it’s different-"
He huffs, as if frustrated with himself. A hand runs through his hair, again. Somehow, it still looks good.
"But there's- god, there's something. Right?" Steve looks at you like you know all the answers, like you understand him, what he's saying- feeling, "with me. And you- us."
Your heart stutters. It's not an 'I love you,' which you're honestly glad for, because you want him to love you naturally. You want him to fall in love slowly and softly- till he's sure of it. Till he's-
"And I feel like such an idiot," he grumbles, "because this whole damn time, you've been right there. And I wasn't looking- I never stopped to really think. Which, I'm good at, I guess. Not thinking-"
You hate it when he does that; he boils himself down to the brawn, no brains. He decides to do the things that are physical and dangerous because he's ‘not as smart' as everyone else, and if anyone is going to be in danger, it should be him. And the others fed into that, whether they realized it or not. Even as a joke.
"Stop that," you can't help but scold him, even as he word vomits in front of you, laying his heart on a platter to observe with you because, god, he's confused too.
"Stop-" he blinks, then his eyes soften, and a weak laugh leaves his body, "that's what I mean. Only you would... Tell me to stop putting myself down like that in the middle of... Whatever this is I'm doing."
"Yeah, well, stop doing it then," you look away, feeling your face start to burn as he says that, calls you out.
He just smiles at you for a long moment. Before it falls, and he sighs deeply, "I don't think I'm making. Am I making sense? I'm not saying any of this right-"
"Start from the top, then."
Steve blinks like you just slapped sense into him, and he stutters, "uh, the top. Yeah- well. You see me. And I've been an idiot. I don't love Nancy anymore, I just... Want to be loved? That sounds pathetic-"
He steps closer, the space between you suddenly smaller- you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and it makes you want to move closer and step away all at the same time.
"I never needed to prove anything to you," his voice is quieter now, and it sounds like a lump has formed in his throat, "and I feel stupid for not seeing it before. Because maybe if I did, maybe if I put all that energy I wasted on Nancy on you-"
His hand, hesitant, gives you every chance to step back and create a line between you, a barrier, as it moves to your wrist. When you don't stop him, his fingers wrap around your wrist, squeezing. Not enough to hurt you, but to ground himself- or you. God, maybe both.
"-Then maybe I'd have saved myself a lot of bellyaching about Nance, about my failed love life," he whispers, his face so close you feel his breath fan across your own face, "saved myself a lot of... Shit, I don't know."
You could kiss him. He's that close- you could kiss him.
But maybe that's not what he wants- what this is- but it sure feels like it is, and the things he's saying suggest this is what it is. He might just be-
Warmth. Soft and sweet against your lips. Tentative in its beginnings, unsure and questioning. Allowing you to stop it. His lips on yours.
Something you never thought would happen. Ever.
Oh. So maybe it was something he wanted.
You don't pull away, but he does, "shit- sorry-"
He doesn't have a chance to finish the thought, because you're pulling him back in with your free hand on his neck- not rough, gentle. But with purpose.
The noise he makes is one of surprise, as if the man hadn't just kissed you first. Eyes wide open- then softening, closing, just barely open. The hand holding your wrist lets go, and slides down to your hand, fingers curling around yours. His palm is warm.
Breathing out through your nose, you let him find the confidence to kiss you back. And whith the knowledge you want the kiss, he's angling his head a little. It wasn't hard to know why he was known for creating the make-out spot at Skull Rock, in high school. His free hand touching your jaw, like you're something fragile, long fingers against your warm skin-
And then it stops. Because at some point, you need to breathe. And talk about whatever that was supposed to mean.
Crickets at least make it not completely silent. However, it somehow makes it worse anyway.
"So-" he starts, looking at you, really looking- like he's really seeing something he wished he saw before, "...we should go to the Hawk. See a movie."
"Are you asking me on a date?"
He huffs, hand dropping from your face, but the other still holding yours.
"Yeah," he narrows his eyes at you, "but I was trying to sound cool about it, thanks."
There he is. Steve Harrington. Funny, sarcastic- so easily him. And it makes you smile, head tilting a little.
"Yeah. Not right now, though, it's 12 am."
"Well, obviously."
"Yeah, obviously."
The way he looks at you is something you never thought you'd experience.
He isn't sure what his feelings are exactly; he couldn't pinpoint it if he tried- but he doesn't want to try and pinpoint it. Doesn't want to overthink it, because whatever it is, it feels amazing. It feels like a warm blanket, a safe place. He doesn't even need to try to prove anything to you. To name a feeling in that moment.
Because you've always seen him. You've never pushed him.
you wake up in yolanda’s bed, sheets twisted around your waist, and there’s a faint ache in your hips from the way she’d gripped you hours ago, hands sure like she needed to feel you there. the coffee maker is already going in the kitchen, and you hear her bare feet on the hardwood, then she’s in the doorway holding two mugs.
she’s in her faded t-shirt again, it’s got a tiny hole near the hem that you always end up tugging at when you’re trying to pull her closer. her eyes are still a little puffy from sleep, she doesn’t say good morning, just hands you the mug that’s she made exactly how you like it. black with a splash of the oat milk she keeps buying you even though she drinks hers straight.
“you were out cold,” she says, voice low and scratchy from being up half the night moaning your name against your skin. she climbs back in, legs sliding under the covers until her thigh presses against yours, warm and solid.
you’ve been doing this for months. it started after some random night where you both ended up at the same bar after a shit, her laughing at your shitty jokes and then later pushing you down against her bed. her mouth on yours, hands sliding under your shirt. now it’s routine in the best and worst way.
you show up when the day feels too heavy, she lets you in without questions, and you end up tangled together until morning. last night was one of the good ones. it started off slow at first, her fingers tracing lazy patterns down your spine while she kissed you slowly, taking her time with you. then it turned into sex, and then you both laughed about something stupid after, her arm slung over your waist, thumb rubbing small circles on your hip until you fell asleep.
mornings are where it gets weird though. not bad-weird, she makes the coffee, you usually make the breakfast, your legs stay tangled in bed with your head on her shoulder. but neither of you dare to label it.
she reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering on your jaw just long enough that it feels like more than habit. “you still snore like a chainsaw,” she teases. you nudge her knee with yours. “yeah? well you talk in your sleep.”
she huffs a laugh, and for a second her hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers lacing loose like she’s testing if you’ll pull away. you don’t. she doesn’t either. it’s the closest she gets to soft, small touches, the way she remembers how you take your coffee, how she leaves the light on in the hall because she knows you hate waking up in total dark.
it goes on like that for weeks, this not-relationship that’s somehow more than casual but never quite named. you text her the usual u free? after a long day and she replies with a single door’s open because yolanda doesn’t do extra words unless she has to. sometimes it’s just sex, hot and urgent, her pushing you against the couch cushions with a bruising grip, mouth on your neck coaxing you to be loud for her.
other times it’s softer, her pulling you into bed and kissing you slow, hands mapping every inch like she’s memorizing your body. you’d end up curled together after, her chin on your shoulder, breathing steady while her fingers traced idle patterns on your arm. she never says she likes it when you stay over, but she doesn’t rush you out either.
once she even left a post-it on the fridge. oat milk in the door, don’t steal all of it with a tiny arrow pointing to your usual spot in the fridge door. it was probably the sweetest thing she’s done, and neither of you brought it up.
one day, you’re in her living room again, half-dressed, her mouth on yours like she’s arguing with it and winning. the kiss starts lazy, her hands under your hoodie, thumbs brushing skin, but it heats fast the way it always does. she backs you toward the bedroom, teeth grazing your lip, one hand fisted gentle in your hair. “missed this,” she says low, and you feel it in your chest more than anywhere else.
you kiss her harder, fingers tugging at her sweats, and for a minute it’s perfect, her body pressed close, the way she groans when you bite her neck right where she likes. but afterward, lying there with the sheets kicked halfway off, she stares at the ceiling like it’s got answers for her. her hand finds yours anyway, thumb rubbing slow circles on your skin.
“this is getting stupid,” she says finally, voice flat but not mean. you turn your head. “what?” she exhales, eyes still on the ceiling. “us. whatever the fuck this is. you keep showing up and i keep letting you and it feels like more than just… this.” her grip on your hand tightens a fraction, betraying the casual tone. you swallow. “since when do you wanna talk about it?” she huffs, but it’s not really a laugh.
“since it started feeling like i think about you when you’re not here. and don’t act like you don’t do the same shit.” the argument isn’t exactly the yelling kind. it’s quiet, you calling her out on being controlling. her calling you out on how you bolt when it gets too real.
“i’m not doing the relationship thing,” she says at one point, sitting up and pulling the sheet with her. “not with you. not with anyone. shit gets complicated.” you sit up too, heart hammering. “yeah? then why do you text me at two a.m. when you can’t sleep?” she doesn’t answer right away. just stares at you with a intense look. “because you’re easy,” she says under her breath, but you both know it’s bullshit. you get dressed in silence after that. she doesn’t stop you and you leave with slamming the door.
two weeks bleed into three and you hear through mutual friends that she’s been hanging around trinity more. yeah, the trinity santos, the one from work, the one with her sharp smile and the same energy yolanda gravitates to when she’s avoiding real stuff.
rebound. that’s what it is. your stomach twists but you don’t text her.
except she does. late one night your phone buzzes with her name. you still up? you stare at your screen for five minutes before typing back yeah. she calls instead, voice low like she’s somewhere she shouldn’t be loud. “trinity’s asleep,” she says right away. “her place smells like citrus. i hate citrus.” you just hum, because there’s a knot deep in your chest. “sounds rough.” you mumble, she lets out a long exhale. “it’s not you though.”
there’s a long silence, but it’s not awkward. you can picture her, probably on trinity’s couch, hair messy, thumb worrying the edge of a blanket, mind looping back to your sheets. “i keep thinking about your laugh,” she mutters. “the stupid one you do when i try to make jokes. trinity doesn’t laugh like that.”
it happens a few more nights. her calling from trinity’s, voice restless. she complains about trinity wanting to label it already, about how none of it sticks because her head’s half here with you. “she’s great,” yolanda says once, almost like she’s convincing herself. “doesn’t take my shit. but she’s not-“ she stops and exhales. “not what?” you push.
“not you,” she finishes quiet, you hear the want under it, the same frustrated pull from all those mornings where she’d linger just a second longer than necessary. it makes your skin warm, remembering her hands, her mouth, the way she’d look at you with soft eyes, even though she’d deny that.
a week later, you’re at jack’s pool party because victoria dragged you along with a you need to get out more text and honestly the free drinks sounded better than staring at your ceiling again.
the backyard’s packed, string lights buzzing overhead like they’re about to give up, music thumping from a speaker that keeps cutting out every few minutes. chlorine, sunscreen and cheap beer hang in the air thick enough to taste.
you’re in a matching bikini set you almost left in the drawer. the deep green one that ties at the sides and sits low on your hips, it makes you feel put-together even when everything else feels like a mess. it clings just right, cool against your skin from the water you dipped into earlier, and you catch a few glances but none of them matter until you spot her.
yolanda’s over by the patio table, arm slung loose around trinity’s shoulders like it’s supposed to look casual. trinity’s mid-story, hands waving, sharp laugh cutting through the noise, and yolanda nods at the right time but her eyes aren’t on her. they keep sliding across the yard, landing on you, dragging slow down the bikini like she can’t help it.
you pretend not to notice at first, laughing at some dumb joke from the guy next to you, sipping whatever fruity thing’s in your cup. but you feel her stare. the same stare that used to look at you before either of you would admit it meant anything.
it takes longer than you expect for her to move. trinity heads inside for refills and yolanda’s walking over to you, shoulders set like she’s determined. she stops close enough that you smell the sunscreen on her skin. her eyes do another slow sweep over you, over the ties on your hips, the way the top sits, your mouth. she exhales through her nose like the sight personally offends her.
“jesus christ,” she says, low under her breath, voice carrying just enough for you to hear over the music. “you wear that on purpose or what?”
you sip your drink, keep your face even. “didn’t know you’d show up.” it’s not sharp, just flat and honest. she rubs the back of her neck, like she’s trying not to fidget. “trinity wanted to come. said it’d be lowkey… or whatever.” her gaze flicks back to the bikini again, lingering on the knot at your hip like she’s calculating how fast she could undo it. “lowkey’s not working out so great right now. you look… fuck. you look good. really fucking good.”
the words come out awkward, like she hates how much she means them. no smooth line, just direct, a little clipped, but her eyes give her away. hungry. off-balance. you shrug one shoulder, “thanks. you’re surviving, i guess.” she huffs a short laugh, “barely. especially now.” she steps closer, close enough her arm brushes yours, and her voice drops. “can we talk? somewhere that isn’t right here with twenty people watching?”
you should say no. you know the pattern by now. her pulling you in, you letting it happen, then both of you pretending like nothing. but her fingers brush your wrist, light and quick, and it’s the same touch from all those mornings after when she’d linger like she didn’t know how to ask you to stay.
you nod once and she leads the way through the house, past people yelling over the music, down a short hall until she pushes open the downstairs bathroom door. it’s small, dim under the single bulb, tiled walls still cool from the ac. the door clicks shut and the noise outside dulls to a muffled thump.
she doesn’t waste time. her hands find your waist, backing you against the sink counter, but it’s not the usual confident shove. her grip’s tight like she’s scared you’ll slip away. “been thinking about you,” she says, forehead almost against yours, breath warm. “all the time. even when trinity’s right there next to me.” her thumb strokes the bare skin just above your bikini bottom slowly, like she’s memorizing all over again the way you feel under her palm. you rest your hands on her shoulders, feeling the tension there, but you don’t pull her closer.
“yolanda…” you start, but she cuts it off with a kiss. it’s desperate from the first second. her mouth is hot on yours, tongue sliding in when you part your lips, one hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you there. she tastes like the beer she’s been nursing.
the groan she lets out is quiet but wrecked, vibrating against you. her other hand roams, palm flat against your ribs, thumb brushing up under the edge of the bikini top, grazing skin without pushing. she squeezes gentle at first, then firmer when you make a small sound into her mouth, pressing her body closer until her thigh slots between yours.
“this fucking bikini,” she breathes against your lips, breaking just enough to look down. her fingers trace the tie at your hip, tugging it lightly like she’s testing how easy it would come undone. “saw you walk in and... fuck, i don’t even know. i miss you.” she kisses you again, hips rolling in the same slow grind that always used to make your head spin.
her hands are everywhere, sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you flush, then back up to palm your chest through the thin fabric, thumbs circling until your nipple hardens. she’s the desperate one, breath coming fast, forehead pressed to yours between kisses like she needs the contact to stay steady. “missed this mouth. missed the way you sound when i touch you like this.”
you kiss her back because your body remembers every time, but you don’t melt into it the way you used to. you keep one foot on the ground, literally and otherwise. she feels you hesitate. her mouth moves to your jaw, then your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that’ll be impossible to hide tomorrow.
“c’mon,” she mutters against your skin, voice rough and a little pleading. “let me just… i miss you. trinity’s fine, she’s smart, she doesn’t take my shit, but she’s not you. she doesn’t even like oat milk, she never laughs at my jokes like it’s the funniest thing. she doesn’t make me forget how to control everything for five goddamn minutes.”
her hand sneaks back to the tie on your hip, tugging again, playful but edged with something needier. you feel her thigh press firmer between your legs, the heat of her through the thin layers, and for a second it’s tempting, easy to let her keep going, let the want win. but you pull back just enough, hands on her shoulders steadying her. your breathing’s ragged, lips swollen, but you shake your head. “yolanda, stop.” it’s quiet, not angry. you’re just done with the cycle.
she freezes, eyes dark and glassy, chest still heaving. her hands don’t leave you right away, her thumb still stroking your hip like she can’t make herself stop. “don’t do that,” she says, trying for her usual blunt edge but it cracks. “don’t pull away like i’m some random hookup. i fucked up with the rebound shit, okay? i know that. trinity’s right outside but i just want you. doesn’t make sense without you...”
she leans in again, kissing the corner of your mouth soft, almost sweet in her own way. her fingers trace small circles on your skin like an apology she doesn’t know how to voice. “i’m not good at this. i’m not good at staying, neither of us is. but i’ll be better. i just… i miss you so bad it’s stupid. you got something she’ll never have. i don’t even know what it is, but it’s there and it’s driving me fucking crazy.”
you let the words sit. her hands are still on you, greedy but careful, like she’s scared pushing too hard will make you walk out. you feel the want rolling off her and her ego is cracked open because she’s standing here in a bathroom at a pool party, desperate for someone who won’t just fall back into it.
you kiss her one more time, slow and innocent, letting your hands roam her sides. she melts into it with this quiet needy sound that goes straight through you, her mouth hungry on yours like she’s trying to convince you without words.
but you pull away, hands dropping to her wrists, easing her back gently. “i can’t,” you say, voice steady even though your skin’s still buzzing. “not like this. not when you’re still figuring out how to not run.” she looks at you, her eyes soft around the edges, almost lost. her thumb brushes your bottom lip one last time. “yeah,” she mutters, huffing a laugh that sounds more tired than anything. “figures. i show up like this and you’re the one setting your foot down tonight.”
she steps back, but her eyes are still pleading. “trinity’s probably wondering where i went,” she murmurs, there’s a an undercurrent of want in her tone that she can’t hide. you adjust your bikini, feeling her watch every move. “go back out there,” you tell her, not mean, just clear. “we both know how this ends if we don’t stop.”
she nods, jaw tight, but before she opens the door she leans in quick and presses a kiss to your cheek. it’s soft and quick, something sweet she’d deny if you called her out on it. “you’re ruining me,” she says under her breath, half joke but there’a truth in it. then she’s gone, slipping out first to check the hall, leaving you in the small space with your heart hammering and the faint taste of her still on your lips.
you wait a minute before following, stepping back into the noise of the party. the lights look the same, the music still thumps, but everything feels a little sharper. yolanda’s back by the patio, trinity handing her a fresh drink, laughing at something. yolanda smiles the right way, arm going around her shoulders again, but you catch the glance she throws your direction. her eyes looks almost sad but she looks away fast. you catch way her hand tightens on the cup, thumb worrying the edge. her eyes keep drifting even when trinity’s talking right at her.
you grab another drink and head toward the pool edge, letting the cool water lap at your ankles. the night keeps going, there’s a lump in your throat the whole time and you want to go home so badly. but victoria is refusing to let you leave so early.
you feel yolanda’s eyes the whole time, warm, wanting and stuck on you like she’s already counting down to the next time she’ll try. and maybe she will. but tonight you won’t give in, and it leaves her standing there with her ego a little more bruised, her want a little more raw, and the quiet sweetness she doesn’t know how to show.
